


Sin

by Pineprin137



Category: Original Work
Genre: Demons, Hell, Seven Deadly Sins
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-06
Updated: 2019-05-25
Packaged: 2019-10-05 07:25:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17320583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pineprin137/pseuds/Pineprin137
Summary: They're waiting...





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I saw a prompt about the seven deadly sins and couldn't pass it up. There will be no individual titles for each chapter. The idea is to figure out which Sin goes with which.

All that glitters is gold. That’s what they say, but they’re wrong. Maybe back when knights saved princesses from fire-breathing dragons a man’s wealth was determined by how many stacks of coins they had or the number of rings that adorned their wrinkled hands. By the golden platters full of tender pig flesh and sparkling goblets filled with rich wine. By the jewels encrusted in their mistress’ dresses and the ornaments on their carriages. Gold was the unreachable goal that they all yearned for, killed for even. But now? It’s all about green.

Who cares if they have shiny accessories or pretty trinkets decorating their walls? Not the elite. No, it’s all about the thickness of your wallet. If it isn’t bursting with bills or plastic cards crammed in till the seams burst, they are nothing. If they want to be on top, they need to have the most digits in your bank balance.

Or... they fake it. They build beautiful houses and fill them up with testaments to their assumed success. “See that painting on the wall? We got that on our trip to the Italian Villa.” “Oh, those plates? We bought them after we saw them on the tables at George’s wedding. We don’t eat on them! But they do look lovely, don’t they?” Those who gaze and drool over expensive furnishings never have to know that it’s on loan or eternally being paid off. That those lovely desirable objects of their current affection are a lie. As long as they cram receipts in dark cupboards and bury price tags deep in the folds of unworn clothes, they can maintain their place on the pedestal of the suburban elite.  

more

More

MORE

Never enough. They aren’t happy? They buy new shoes. They get bored? They blow a grand on a spontaneous getaway. Their spoiled offspring wrecks the family Range Rover? They pull out a shiny new plastic life raft and go upgrade to the newest model. They spend what they don’t have, will never have. They swipe their plastic and pray to unnamed deities that they won’t see that eight-letter word: DECLINED. They panic and bead sweats on their botox-ed foreheads until they dig into their Gucci bags for one of their other cards. “Try this one! That one is so old, I forgot about it in there!” Anything to save their financial facade and see the envy in their dead eyes reflected in their so-last-month phone screens. There is always something better, a technological upgrade, another house addition. They decorate their driveways with fancy foreign cars and cram collectibles into their mansions that will never be touched again. They're wasting away with dollar signs in their eyes and perpetual longing in their hearts.

With each swipe of a card or dollar added to a stack of bills, their unsatisfied souls are one step closer to being mine.   


	2. Chapter 2

I long for the good ol’ days when men would don their armor and wear a facade of bravery and honor as they march onto the battlefield. Smiles would decorate their blood-spattered faces and they would pile the dead to fill the air with the sweet smell of victory. The higher the sacrifice, the more blood soaking into their filthy skin, the greater the celebration that followed. The drinks would flow as they reveled in tales of decapitations and dismemberments. They would try to outdo the next man’s body count even though they fought side-by-side. They always found a reason. Whether it was championed by all or dependent on the eye of the beholder, they could never sate their thirst.

But now? A weapon once used gracefully to inflict the utmost damage in a truly gruesome display is now used as a toy or a flimsy shield from the cruelty of this age. It doesn’t take much to push them over the edge anymore, a stolen bike in a bad neighborhood and bodies will line the streets. It’s a shame, really. 

They no longer feel the need to nurture it, to carefully cultivate it in silence until it bursts in a macabre demonstration of strength and power. They abuse it and smirk when their pathetic attempts at destruction are shown on the six o’clock news. There is no beauty in the violence they display. They lack the finesse achieved by years of silent torment and repressed anger.

They seek satisfaction from instant gratification. They no longer yearn for wet crimson on a blade or long to feel the snap of a bone beneath their hands. They may have used rudimental interpretations of today’s firearms in the Old West, but that’s where the similarity ends. Those outlaws performed. They felt the adrenaline in their veins. They stalked their prey and only the strongest survived. It created delicious order in a world of contrived chaos. But now the weak can fell a giant and a meager babe can end a man’s life if he has access to the right tools. They don’t feel anger, simply entitlement. A bunch of rich boys fighting over who gets the biggest piece of slick cherry pie.    

Where is the poetry? Where is the beauty? Where is the pride in the act? Before, I would collect thousands of them all at once, and now I’m forced to slum in the dark waiting for precious few to finally succumb to the rage building inside of twisted hearts and broken psyches. Watching for their gory masterpieces. Anticipating snarls and curses. Dreaming about their victims’ last gurgles, when they look into my eyes and seal their fate.


	3. Chapter 3

So many would be surprised to see me here in the dim light of a seedy bar on the edge of a mostly forgotten town, but this feels like home. They would call me out and claim that I feel more comfortable in a strip club or a whore house ripe with writhing bodies and whispered nothings. But that’s almost too easy. They hardly have to offer anything before others are crawling on all fours like a pet after a master. Yes, it would be easy picking. Shooting fish in a barrel, so to speak. And where’s the fun in that? 

Instead, I choose to lurk in the dark corners listening to a jukebox and watching my favorite form of free entertainment. Whores are obvious in their desires, but here there is a secret dance that builds in anticipation of the upcoming forbidden act. The desperations breaks as sweat on their brows and hands pushed through greasy hair. Their yearning shows in the way their fingers curl against their thighs or trail along a stranger’s skin. A silent invitation that needs no spoken agreement. Female skin tingles and a pussy dampens as they lean against a bartop littered with dents and the ghostly remnants of spilled drinks. 

The swell of a trapped cock replies as eyes graze over a tight body encased in a scrap of silk. A tongue sneaks out to lick dry lips. Eyes meeting and breath quickening, my favorite part. When they give in to temptation and allow themselves to get lost in all of the bodily pleasures just waiting for them. When a firm hand grabs a delicate wrist and leads the way to any empty space in the back. The din of unknowing witnesses decreases as a door closes and the outside world is blocked out, cast away with other nonimportant worries and judgments.  

Two bodies meld together while tongues tangle and hands grasp. Moans fill the air as two players fight for dominance. Stroking, kissing, gripping, biting. Wanting more. Needing to be even closer. Some clothes tossed away while others are simply pushed aside. Gasping, moaning, panting, grunting. Lips connect with soft skin and sharp nails dig into muscled arms. The air filled with the smell of sweat, the silence broken by the noises of dirty redemption. 

And when that moment comes, when they clench their eyes and succumb to their bodies natural impulses, it’s beautiful. Every time two new prey fall into the trap and eternally give themselves to me I breathe deep. I memorize the entire scene of mixed sweat and mingling fluids dripping to the floor. The murmured kisses and reassurances. And when they finally peel their sticky selves apart and tiptoe their way back to into society, I give a wicked grin. After all, it was all for me.  


End file.
